‘So where are they going with those things? I got no feel for this, Tom. You’ve got to help me.’
‘Could be just about anyplace. Angola, Mozambique, Libya — you name it.’
‘Do those places matter to us? I mean, if they get the planes?’
Reynolds shrugged.
‘We sure as hell would care if they went to Libya. But I don’t think they will. Savkin and Gaddafy ain’t speakin’ much these days. No. I still think it’s Cuba — if it’s anywhere at all.’
‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It’s weird. Those planes are built just outside Moscow. The easiest way to get them anywhere is to fly ’em. So why take them all the way up to Murmansk to put them on a ship?’
‘Maybe he hoped no one’d spot them that way.’
Reynolds shook his head.
‘You don’t steam right past a US Navy flat-top if you want to keep secret a deck-full of jet fighters.’
‘So what’re you saying? It was bait? And we took it?’
‘Could be. We can’t say for sure.’
‘So, Savkin wants to wind us up, huh?’
‘Could be. Maybe he thinks if he can make us look real mean, it’ll strengthen his hand in the next arms talks. Don’t forget, they want naval forces on the agenda this time. And we’ve got a lot more at sea than they have.’
McGuire stood up, spun round the chair so its back was against the table. Then he straddled it, resting his arms on the top.
‘Suppose you’re wrong, and those planes go to Cuba. What do we have to do about it? What can this MiG do? Is it a threat?’
Tom Reynolds pursed his thin lips.
‘Militarily? The MiG-29’s like our own F-18. Good all-round fighter. But there’s only six of ’em on the ship, so far as we know — peanuts.
‘But politically? That’s different. Any strengthening of communist forces so close to the US is bad news. You’ve seen what the media are doing with it. Watch the newscasts tonight and see how many congressmen have picked up the ball. I can name a handful who’re guaranteed to be running with it.’
‘Mmmm,’ the President mused, calculating the political advantages in the various courses of action open to him.
‘I guess the smart money’s on not doing anything too fast,’ he concluded, eyeing his National Security Adviser for his reaction. ‘Just so long as the rednecks in Congress don’t see it as weakness.’
He stood up and thrust his hands into his pockets.
‘If Congress kicks up a fuss, I’ll tell ’em the Soviets know damn well what to expect if they do anything that threatens the USA.’
‘And if you’re asked if the MiGs are a threat?’
‘I’ll tell ’em I don’t know yet. Savkin hasn’t told me where he’s sending them!’
The President laughed, but was cut short.
‘Then the media’ll give us shit because the CIA and DIA haven’t found out where they’re goin’.’
‘Okay! Then I’ll be enigmatic. Say they’re not a threat where they are right now!’
‘Sure.’
Reynolds leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head.
‘You’re right about keeping it cool, John. What I’m worried about is what could happen. Eighteen of our biggest and best warships are steaming into what the Soviets think of as their own home waters. Savkin means to use our exercise for his own ends. I can see some of what he’s after, but not all of it. With those MiGs, we flew into a trap. We’ve got to look out for the next one and avoid it.’
‘First thing is to muzzle the media on the Eisenhower,’ McGuire growled. ‘The only pictures of Russian ships I want to see from now on are the ones that come in from the Pentagon. Make sure the Navy knows that, will you, Tom?’
‘You got it. And what do you want State to do about the protest from the Soviet Ambassador?’
‘Throw it back at them. But do it diplomatically!’
The President stood up again, indicating their meeting was over, but Reynolds stayed seated.
‘Anything else?’ McGuire demanded, looking anxiously at his watch.
‘Well…, I don’t rightly know.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Well, it may be nothing. Just something that’s come from a US Navy Commander doing NATO duty at the east Atlantic headquarters at Northwood, England. He’s talked about it to the Defense Intelligence Agency. Says the Brits have got big trouble with one of their submarines. Doesn’t know what, but there’s a lot of important people over there looking real worried. And they’re not telling us about it, which is odd, since the sub’s in the exercise.’
‘Some kind of accident, you figure?’
‘Nope. They’d be after our rescue vehicle if it was.’
‘What then?’
‘All the guy knows is, the boat ain’t doing what it’s supposed to. So there may be a joker in the pack, and if you’re going to play poker with Savkin, you ought to know that.’
The President eyed Reynolds silently for what felt like a full half-minute.
‘Thanks, Tom.’
At six that evening Washington time, the four main American television news channels went on the air with their world news bulletins. All of them led on the remarkable report from ABC Moscow correspondent Nick Hallberg, the first western journalist ever to fly on patrol in a Soviet warplane.
The sight of American jets flaunting their weaponry at the Russian plane made some viewers’ hearts flutter with pride. It left others feeling apprehensive, however. Amongst the latter was Tom Reynolds.
By putting curbs on the US Navy’s media facilities, he’d hoped to control US TV pictures from the North Atlantic. He kicked himself for his naïvety.
After the pooled Hallberg report, each network other than ABC switched to their own Moscow correspondent’s despatch from the press conference given in Moscow that evening by Admiral Grekov, Supreme Commander of the Soviet Navy.
Grekov spoke no English. His words were relayed in the exaggeratedly American tones of the official Soviet interpreter.
The US Navy pilots had violated international law, he railed. They’d jeopardized the lives of the crew of the ‘unarmed Soviet reconnaissance plane’. The aggression they’d displayed was symbolic of the whole tone of the NATO exercise about to be enacted close to the Soviet coast, he insisted.
The Admiral then stood up, resplendent in his uniform, and pointed with a stick to a chart comparing NATO and Warsaw Pact naval forces in Atlantic and European waters.
‘Aircraft carriers: NATO has twenty-four, the Warsaw Pact just four small ones with no strike power. Submarines: about two hundred each. Frigates and destroyers: NATO has three times the number in our navies. With such odds in the West’s favour, why does NATO need to mount aggressive manoeuvres in Soviet waters?’ he demanded to know. ‘It can hardly be for defence, so is it for war?’
Grekov directed his final query to the camera, his wrinkled face a picture of affronted innocence.
Tom Reynolds was watching four channels simultaneously in his room in the Old Executive Office Building next to the White House. Under his lean jaw, a nerve twitched.
The broadcasts finished with a brief commentary from the networks’ Pentagon correspondents, confirming that the figures Grekov had quoted were fundamentally correct.
Reynolds snatched up the green telephone.
‘Could you tell the President I need to see him again,’ he barked. ‘Right now!’
CHAPTER SIX
Lieutenant Sebastian Cordell couldn’t sleep. The night was nearly gone; three more hours and he’d be back on watch.